Change Wears Givenchy
by Words and Thorns
Summary: Set one year after the events in TDWP, Miranda Priestly hires yet another assistant. But her new assistant must be different. Miranda needs an assistant that is absolutely different from Andy. Step in Adam, first male assistant that Miranda Priestly has ever hired. Adam must navigate the cutthroat world of a female-dominated industry, while keeping his sense of self. Please R&R! :)
1. Chapter 1

_Change Wears Givenchy - Set one year after the events in __The Devil Wears Prada__, Miranda Priestly hires yet another assistant. But her new assistant must be different. Andy has shaken up Miranda's confidence and (could it be possible?) bruised her ego. She needs an assistant that is absolutely different from Andy. Step in-Adam. The first male assistant that Miranda Priestly has ever hired, Adam is witty, in-the-know, and about to be thrust in the cutthroat world of a female-dominated industry. Does he have what it takes to comply with Miranda's wishes while keeping a grasp on who he is as a person? _**_Read on to find out. Updates a minimum of once weekly (or more frequently, if readers want)._**

* * *

**_Update/FAQ:_**

**Potential Pairing: Emily/Adam**

Yes, Andy will be featured in the story. ;)

* * *

**_Be sure to review to let me know what you're thinking about the latest chapter, and let me know your thoughts! I'd love to hear it and you never know, it could change how the story progresses._**

* * *

"You cannot be out!" I screeched, my voice cracking uncomfortably as I stared the poor Indian vendor down. He blinked, obviously used to hassled and frantic New Yorkers. With a solemn nod, he dropped the pile of magazines down into my arms, giving me a sympathetic look as I tottered backwards.

"Nobody has time to learn French." he announced, sipping his cup of Seven-Eleven coffee. "Try somewhere else, pretty boy." Without a second look, he opened his newspaper and resumed reading, leaving me standing, reeling from the horrible implications of my current predicament.

"Look." I pleaded, adjusting the magazines so that they were all supported by my left arm, leaving one hand free to tap the back of the vendor's newspaper. "Alright, you're out of _Vogue Paris._ Absolutely horrendous luck, but you have to know the nearest vendor that may have an issue. I'll even let the 'pretty boy' comment slide."

There was a moment of silence as the man slowly lowered his newspaper, narrowing his eyes at me. "The pretty boy comment still stands." He growled, closing _The New York Times_ with a sigh. "All I see is expensive clothes, slicked back hair and the newest iPhone. I bet if my sinuses cleared up, I would be able to smell your Armani perfume."

"Dolce and Gabbana." I hissed instinctively.

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "My point proven. As if I would direct you to my competitor." With a smug smile, he turned away from me, raising his newspaper again.

I opened my mouth, ready to bombard him with a torrent of my favorite cuss words when a sudden vibrating in my pocket interrupted me. My heart dropped and I made an audible "uuuurrrghh" of panic as I fumbled to take it out. Reading the caller ID, I thanked the gods above when it showed up as Emily, the senior assistant.

"Hello?" I asked hesitatingly, praying that she would have some good news for me.

"Where are the magazines?" Emily growled, her voice clipped.

I shot a dangerous look at the vendor before briskly walking to the corner where the limousine was parked. "I have everything except the copy of _Vogue Paris._ Idiot vendor didn't have it. Knew he wasn't to be trusted, Emily. We're not going back here next time."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, in which I imagined Emily rolling her eyes in a mixture of both pity and disgust. As I settled into the backseat of the vehicle, she finally replied.

"Well, at least it isn't the _Vogue Italia._" she scoffed.

"So I can come back?"

"No, you buffoon." she snapped, and I heard paper rustling impatiently in the background. "Of course you have to get your hands on a copy. Give me a second, I'm looking for the next nearest vendor. We're running out of time—Miranda will be here _any fucking second. _You have her drink, right?"

My breath hitched as I turned my attention to the driver. "Get me to the nearest Starbucks." I hissed frantically. Emily sighed on the phone as the driver peeled from the curb and into the traffic.

"I left it in my purse, Adam." she confessed, guilt perhaps leading her to finally acknowledge me by my name. "I'll have to rummage through all my shit to find it. Give me a moment. I'll call back." Before I could protest, she hung up. Simultaneously, I was interrupted for the umpteenth time this day as the limo jolted to a stop, sending my forehead into the back of the driver's seat.

"Shit!" I swore, clutching at my forehead.

The driver looked back at me apologetically. "Should've been wearing your seatbelt." He cautioned. Stifling another curse, I leaned against the door and opened it, feet hitting the curb running, still holding my phone in a vice-like grip.

The Starbucks lineup was thankfully shorter than usual, thanks to the help of additional employees to help weather the horde of caffeine-craving adults. It wasn't until I had received Miranda's latte that Emily finally called back.

"Where?" I gasped desperately, pushing my way back to the limousine.

"Forget it! We have no time! Miranda decided she would arrive at the office early for an impromptu meeting. Get your ass back here now!"

"But _Vogue—_"

"Do you want to be late with all of them—or missing one?" she snapped, voice rising a pitch.

"Is death an option?" I replied, collapsing into the backseat. I pointed shakily down the road. "Back home," I told the driver.

"You know what? Miranda doesn't pay you to be funny." Emily hissed breathlessly as I heard rustling in the background. No doubt she was changing into her new pair of open-toed heels. "Where are you? Get back here."

I hung up on her without thinking. I knew I was going to get hell for it, but at the moment, I couldn't help but wonder what I was doing with my life. As the vehicle finally parked outside our destination, I gathered up the magazines and the coffee and ran for my life indoors.

My footsteps made less noise, one hundred percent in part to the fact that I didn't need to wear high heels. Thank god for men's fashion. This meant I was almost able to get through the turnstiles without getting noticed by Eduardo. _Almost._

"Uh-uh!" Eduardo laughed, taking his finger off the button that allowed all authorities to buzz through. "You almost got me there. Not used to looking for a guy that happened to be Miranda's slave. Tell me that story again," he prodded, leaning forward on his desk.

"Eduardo, I'd love to but I have no time." I said, waving Miranda's coffee in his general direction angrily. I threw a look back over my shoulder nervously. "Miranda can be here _any _second. You have to let me through, unless you want me to come down in the next five minutes _fired._ Do you want to be responsible for crushing another man's life?"

"Ooh, pulling the alpha male card." Eduardo chuckled, leaning back and hovering his finger over the buzzer. "You get off this time, but you owe me."

"I'll get you a coffee!" I yelled as I barreled through the turnstiles and towards the nearest open elevator.

"I want the story, not the caffeine!" he yelled back.

"The coffee will keep you awake, though." I snarled under my breath as I entered the elevator.

As the doors closed, I took a deep breath, thankful to have a moment of reprieve to collect my thoughts. Looking at the reflective doors, I let out the breath, hoping to blow my hair back into its proper position. The gel had loosened. Staring back at myself, I took the moment to _really_ look at the connotations of me being in the elevators straight to _Runway _offices.

Adam Costas, junior assistant to Miranda Priestly for currently two weeks and (hopefully still, if I survive my current fiasco) running. Having been born in New York to a fairly well-off family with no siblings (thank God), I had my eyes on the prize. Architecture design, specifically in writing. Unfortunately, due to the precarious nature of job-hunting, I had no choice but to throw my resume at any place that offered openings in the hopes that I could get one step closer to my dream.

That was when the suggestion for _Runway _came in. Fashion? I followed it, but I never really took too much interest in a world so obviously dominated by females. Where could a guy like me even begin to fit in? Turns out, Miranda Priestly ("Who?" I remembered asking.) was on the hunt for someone completely new. Her past assistants have completely failed her, and she needed new blood and foremost, change. A male. That was it. The job that a "million girls would die for" has been secured by a male. And Miranda could not care less what anyone thought. As far as she was concerned, perhaps a man would be able to fetch her coffee and complete her errands faster since he didn't have to wear high heels.

I took a deep breath again, drawing myself back to the present. I was flustered. My face, usually so pale, showed tinges of blossoming red. My dark brown hair, usually immaculately coiffed, was beginning to fall into shambles. Before _Runway,_ I would've considered myself a good-looking bloke. But no more. It was obvious that my cheekbones were never going to be on par with the males in this industry—not to mention my average height was exactly that. Average. Everything about me seemed suddenly average, and instantly inferior. But it never stopped me from trying my hardest every morning to tease my hair into the proper shape and my constant practices in front of the mirror to perfect what I liked to call 'the piercing stare' that all beings in fashion, male or female, seemed to have.

The elevator doors swept open, and I blinked, disoriented for a moment. Emily didn't give me a chance to collect myself. Swooping in like a vulture from her place in the reception desk, she snatched the coffee out of my hand and hurried into the office. "Bring the magazines! She's a block away!"

Heart pounding, I followed Emily's lead and rushed into Miranda's office, heading straight for her desk. With shaky fingers, I laid the magazines out in the correct order, heart practically stilling when my fingers grasped for the _Vogue Paris _that did not exist_. Please God,_ I prayed,_ let her start her meeting straight away so she won't notice._

Emily set the coffee in its proper place on the desk and turned to me. On her good days, she was almost a flirt, giving me the smallest compliments while constantly reminding me of how inferior I was to the models. Today, she was hitting every sour note possible.

"Your hair is a mess," she scowled, turning to the door and leaving.

"Thanks," I muttered, finishing arranging the magazines. My mind was racing. Miranda's impromptu meeting only had to be fifteen minutes long—that would be enough time to run to the nearest Seven-Eleven and scour the magazine section in the hopes of finding that elusive issue.

"Ahem."

I turned, hearting sinking. I recognized that voice anywhere. Raising my eyes, I looked into the face of my boss, Miranda Priestly.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Questions in the review will be put at the beginning of the first chapter, so check there for my notes. Thank you for everyone that has read the story, and I appreciate any reviews that I get. Let me know what you think, and any questions you may have!_**

* * *

_Three Weeks Prior_

Emily raised the tissue to her nose and blew delicately, concealing a small smile as she did so. "Yes, you heard correctly the first time so do stop calling," she continued, her tone as emotionless as she could make it. "Your position here has been terminated. Permanently." she added unnecessarily.

Ignoring the stammering on the other end, Emily let the receiver drop into the phone's cradle. Quickly turning the small mirror situated on the desk towards her, Emily cocked her head and reapplied her lipstick, giving no sign that she had just crushed another junior assistant's dream of working at _Runway _ever again. The latest girl had been more persistent than most, however. Since her firing two days ago, Emily had to fend off her increasingly hysterical calls at erratic intervals.

The phone rang again and Emily scowled, rolling her eyes. Finishing the last touches of her lipstick, she reached over to the phone and picked up. "Miranda Priestly's office." she answered politely, mentally preparing herself for the halfwit girl again. She was pleasantly surprised when the caller turned out to be Sharon, from Elias-Clark human resources.

"We have another potential applicant." Sharon announced perkily and Emily rotated her seat around, looking at the office behind her, anticipating the next question. "Is Miranda available?"

"One moment, Sharon." Emily replied, dropping the receiver before making her way into Miranda's office, her stilettos making the introductory 'clack-clack' to alert her boss.

"Miranda," she opened hesitatingly, "there is another interviewee here to see you. Shall I say you're busy?"

Miranda Priestly looked up, and Emily had to catch her breath. An expertly intent gaze scanned Emily's outfit while a perfectly manicured finger traced her lips, deciding on her answer. "No, I am available. How many more days will I have to suffer with only one assistant to do a job for two?" A small half-smile graced Miranda's features as she returned to her magazine.

Years working for Miranda had taught Emily that this meant she was dismissed. Quickly, she returned to her desk and picked up the receiver again. "Yes, send her up." she replied coldly. "Make sure they are well-prepared. She's not in the best of moods."

"Of course, Emily." Sharon gushed. "I have Adam briefed and everything. Coming right your way. Good bye now."

Emily blinked as Sharon hung up, too startled to react. She turned back to Miranda's office, where she could see her boss bring a cup of sparkling liquid to her thin lips. Adam? As in, a male? She bit her lip and put her hand on the phone again, unsure if to call or not to send Sharon after the applicant. A male assistant for Miranda? Sure, he could be as gay and fashion-forward as possible, but Miranda had never had a male assistant in her entire career. But it was too late, the elevator doors opened and Emily swiveled to the front, steeling herself to warn the applicant away.

"Miranda does not accept—"she began before laying eyes on him. "Oh." she managed, although her brain said, _I mean, handsome._ And he was. Emily was no stranger to beautiful men. Hell, just last week she had to go backstage for a Saint Laurent runway shoot, where there were the most to-die-for male models getting ready. But standing at a little over six feet tall, the young man in front of Emily made her blink perhaps once or twice more than usual. Wearing evidently expensive khakis and a dark blue chambray shirt, he crossed over to Emily and held out a hand.

"Adam Costas," he murmured, flashing her an easy smile. It seemed so effortless, the way his eyes crinkled slightly as he gazed into Emily's eyes. Her initial plan died as quickly as it had grown and Emily raised a hand and shook his, almost dazed. But her professionalism kicked in and she coughed as he sat down across from her, his small smile still lingering.

Her briefing went by in a blur; he was a good listener and nodded at the right moments, always looking interested and poised. As they both stood up, ready to enter Miranda's office, Emily couldn't help herself.

"You do know what you're getting yourself into? This is a job millions of girls would die for." she warned. Adam turned back to her, the smile gone for once. His eyes met hers and they showed a determination that many girls in Elias-Clark did not have right before being interviewed by Miranda Priestly.

"I'm ready." he said soothingly, before entering Miranda's office. Emily watched him go. Like clockwork, Adam reached a hand out for Miranda's, but received nothing. Miranda Priestly looked behind Adam, her eyes drilling into Emily's. She blinked once and nodded. _Interesting, _she seemed to say.

Emily turned away, tapping her fingers on the keyboard, trying to bring her mind away from the interview. She did not know what to think of Adam anymore. She could hear Miranda begin asking the usual questions. _What brings you _Runway_? What languages do you speak? _

Adam seemed to reply with his usual grace and everything seemed to go well, but Miranda asked a question that Emily had never heard her ask before to an applicant.

"What can you bring to _Runway_ that a million other girls cannot? What can you do as an assistant that a million more girls cannot?"

Emily shot a look at the back of Adam's head. She couldn't see his expression, but she knew from his suddenly tense shoulders that he was taken aback by the question.

"Um," he stuttered, and Emily cringed, instinctively picking up the phone.

"Miranda Priestly's office," she barked into the phone to the answering dial tone. Eyes staring into nothing, she listened as Adam sat in silence, presumably mulling over his next words. Finally he spoke.

"Take a chance on me." he answered smoothly, and Emily's jaw dropped. Turning, she watched as Adam played with a lock of his hair. "I think you will find that a bit of testosterone manning your office will accomplish much more than you'd think."

Five seconds of stony silence followed this reply and Emily steeled herself, unsure whether or not to get up and press the elevator button so Adam could flee Miranda's wrath faster. But then—

"I do not take chances," Miranda scoffed, taking another sip from her glass. "Emily will show you the way out."

Emily knocked her chair back nosily as she stood up, briskly walking to Miranda's office. Adam was already in the doorway, and she could tell that the interview shook him up more than she had guessed. He looked nervous, and he flashed Emily a smile as she unnecessarily followed him to the elevator.

He shrugged, his characteristic smile coming back, albeit much more shakily. "You think I impressed her?" he asked Emily, his eyes crinkling slightly.

Emily said nothing as he entered the elevator. She might've smiled but as the elevator doors closed, all she remembered was hobbling back to her seat, unsure what to think.

"Emily!" Miranda snapped, and Emily shot up in her seat again.

"Yes, Miranda?" she asked, turning to see her boss in the doorway.

Miranda's eyes met Emily resolutely. "Call Sharon and let her know that we found someone. I expect him here in the next week, fully in the know."

"Yes, Miranda." Emily answered dumbly, unable to believe that Adam somehow managed to worm his way into the job.

"Well, don't just stand there." Miranda shot, walking back to her desk. "Good lord, you would've thought I asked you to do something _impossible._"

* * *

**Be sure to drop by a review if you enjoyed this chapter. Adam's POV will be back in the next chapter, just wanted to provide you guys with a sort-of-prologue. Let me know what you think with a review, and follow if you'd like. ****J**** See you with a new entry very soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N: I'd like to thank everyone that has read and/or reviewed my story. It makes me the happiest person ever, I swear. :) Make sure to let me know what you thought of the chapter. I do take in your suggestions in consideration (i.e. Andy's role in this story has become larger than I had originally planned, and I like the turn of the events.)_**

**_So once again, thank you and enjoy the newest chapter._**

* * *

_Present_

If time could freeze, I swear to God it happened right then. Miranda Priestly could never be a typical salesperson. Her eyes seemed to be unable to muster up any emotion that could possibly hold any sign of warmth and welcome. Cool and indifferent eyes scanned me, the only thing moving in her otherwise impassive face. I suddenly felt inadequate as she made no effort to conceal her visual dissection of my style.

I watched silently, hoping for her approval as Miranda's eyes lingered over my geometric-print shirt from Vivienne Westwood (too loud?) and traced down to my leather pants (too tight?). Finally, her eyes snapped back up and she finally spoke.

"Well?" she asked in her upper-crust accent, voice cutting like steel. "Are we just going to stare at each other for another century, or are you going to move and do something productive?"

Embarrassed, I managed to squeak out a quiet "Sorry, Miranda" as I ducked around her, fleeing to the relative safety of my own desk. Collapsing in the chair, I stared at Emily, who very pointedly looked away. "Why didn't you warn me?" I hissed.

"She was already out the elevator when I turned around." Emily shot back, fingers typing furiously. The printer revved up and Emily reached out and snatched the paper just as Miranda called softly from the office. "Emily? Is the Bulletin updated?"

"Of course, Miranda. I have it right here," Emily replied, walking by my desk, picking up the clipboard and attaching the newly revised edition to it—all without looking at me. I turned back to my computer, a finger mindlessly tracing a key as I berated myself for not thinking faster on my feet. What had happened to me? When I first met Miranda, I had heard rumors, of course, about her stone-cold personality and her ability to turn every single fashionista into a cesspool of inferiority. But I thought I had what it took to be able to stay one step ahead of her wrath. Ha.

The first day was horrible. I showed up promptly on time, opting for a more formal look with a nicely fitted blazer and a white t-shirt. Emily was there and she instantly bombarded me with instructions on preparing the Bulletin and the correct protocol on answering calls. Miranda had made it clear from the get-go that she expected me to be fully on top of everything, and she wasn't kidding. She called eight times before she even got into the office. I had to reschedule her dinner reservation to The Four Seasons, pick up fourteen prototype handbags from Prada and Givenchy, send her French bulldog puppy to a dog spa (the backseat has never recovered), and stock up on Pellegrino (because God forbid she drink anything else but that and lattes). When she came into the office demanding her lunch, which of course _I _had to pick up from her favorite bistro in high New York traffic, I had to tackle another boatload of oh-so-important tasks that could've been made easier by just asking Miranda for clarification—but Emily quickly put me in my place. "You_ never _ask her for clarification. She has enough on her plate without you asking her what style and color she wanted her bags in." By the time the week was finished, I had perfected the art of power-napping, with the help of copious amounts of caffeine to keep me awake.

The elevator doors opened and I watched a group of four women and one man enter. The three women, obviously from some prominent fashion brand by the look of the huge hand baskets overfilling with garments in one arm, pushed a large coat rack full of furs down towards Miranda's office. I watched as Emily backed up, still trapped in Miranda's office, to allow them to squeeze in.

The man, however, crossed to my table in three strides and slapped his hands on my shoulders, forcing me up. "UP UP!" he yelled, and I heard the conversation in Miranda's office lull. "SO SORRY, MIRANDA." Nigel hollered, "DO CONTINUE. THERE ARE SOME MARVELOUS STYLES THERE. I DO LOVE THE ONES FROM VERSACE. SO INNOVATIVE."

Emily, who had returned to her seat by now, rolled her eyes and went back to work instantly, picking up a stack of papers. "Could you be any louder?" she sniffed, dropping them into the shredder.

Nigel ignored her, wagging a finger at me as he turned me around slowly, taking a huge sniff. "DOLCE AND GABBANA? DON'T TELL ME I'M RIGHT BECAUSE I KNOW I'M RIGHT." He lowered his volume as he progressed, perhaps out of respect for the meeting. I sighed inwardly, letting Nigel inspect me like some male mannequin. My gender was ninety percent of the reason he did this every time he visited, he assured me; the remaining ten percent was apparently due to my "MODEL BUT NOT A MODEL" look.

"What do you think, Emily?" Nigel purred, rustling my hair like I was Miranda's pug, finishing his inspection.

"Very nice." Emily replied, focused on the shredding with a razor-sharp intensity. "I think James wore something like that last week." Ouch.

"BUT THE DIFFERENCE," Nigel barked, marching over to Emily and taking the last of the papers away from her, ripping them in two. "IS THE FACT THAT THIS BOY IS AS STRAIGHT AS A RULER."

"Bisexual." I coughed, feeling the need to correct him.

Nigel rolled his eyes. "AND THE DIFFERENCE IS? HONEY, IF YOU WANTED ANY OF THE BOYS OUT THERE, YOU COULD'VE HAD THEM. I SAW JAMES EYEING YOU, AND YOU WERE WEARING A TURTLENECK. I LIKE IT WHEN BOYS ATTRACTED TO WOMEN DRESS WELL."

I flushed. Miranda's office continued their conversation, but I knew that Nigel's voice would pierce the din. "Nigel, please." I murmured, crossing my arms uncomfortably.

Emily looked exasperated. Forcibly taking the ripped papers from Nigel, she tossed them into the compact trash can and crossed her arms as well, although for her out of irritation. "If only he worked as well as he dresses." she laughed, shooting me a look that edged between teasing and malice. Double ouch. "Just yesterday, I had to haul ass to make sure Miranda got del la Renta's memo for a meeting. By the time I finished scheduling and rescheduling the entire get-together, he just finished logging a shipment of Hermes scarves." She looked almost smug, as if she had proved her superiority once more. I rolled my eyes at her, absentmindedly trying to fix my now-ruined hair.

Nigel sighed dramatically, throwing his arms up in defeat. "Very well!" he sniffed, dropping into one of the office's uncomfortable white chairs. "Now, I know Miranda hasn't gotten around to telling you—she never does—so I am here to tell you that Miranda and I will be assembling a team for a joint collaboration with Vogue and Glamour. The triumvirate of fashion magazines…I suppose. Of course Runway exceeds all." He added hastily. I smiled—even Nigel felt the need to do the classic turn-around. Miranda's reign must not be questioned.

Emily perked up, finally giving Nigel his complete interest. "I knew that already," she piped in, eyes glued to Nigel.

"Shush, baby doll." Nigel continued, flapping a massive hand towards Emily's direction. "Everyone will be in overdrive mode—Runway will be completing an issue normally AND we have this joint magazine to create. That means a lot of work for everyone, and Miranda will need you two to accompany us to the runways and photoshoots. Assistants don't usually get this privilege, but we can't waste any time calling you guys in Elias-Clark. We need you on the scene and READY to accommodate. You two are now even more essential, and I need you to be at the top of your game. OKAY?" he hollered, sounding like a coach.

We both nodded eagerly. For Emily, it was another sign that her goddess immortalized, Miranda, would need her even more. That girl was unhealthily obsessed with her work.

"Of course," Nigel smiled, coyly brushing off invisible balls of lint from his ribbed turtleneck. "Miranda will drive you two harder than ever before. So it will be a good time for you drop any of the tensions between you two, sexual or not, and work together as a team. Why, when we had Andy—"

"We do work as a team." Emily cut in, looking suddenly agitated. She shot a look at Miranda's office, and I looked as well, worried that we might've been too loud.

"Well, if this is a team, I'll need you guys to become _one _over the next few weeks." Nigel pressed. "I am not kidding when I said you two are essential-"

"Hold on," I interrupted, raising a hand defensively. "What do you mean, sexual? Emily and I are co-workers."

Nigel raised an impeccably stylized eyebrow. "I was just referring to the gender difference." he answered a little too smoothly.

"Nigel?" Miranda called from her office, and Nigel shot up in his seat triumphantly.

"THE LADY OF THE HOUR CALLS." he yelled, and danced his way to her office. At the doorway, he turned around, posing dramatically. "Are you prepared to be BOGGED DOWN BY FASHION? OR SHOULD I SAY, ELEVATED BY IT?"

"Already am," I snorted under my breath as Nigel turned and entered the room, his trademark booming voice still ringing in my ears. I looked up and saw Emily looking at me with a look torn between revulsion and apprehension. "What?" I asked, scratching my neck self-consciously.

She gritted her teeth. "Nothing. I suppose we must get used to traveling together." Gripping her pen like a dagger, she returned to her work, signing documents with Miranda's signature with a flourish not unlike slashing.

Eyes widening slightly, I sighed and returned to my work as well, unsure what to make of the weeks ahead of me.


	4. Chapter 4

When my phone rang, it took me a minute to orient myself. Crawling out of my cheap IKEA bed, I tried to find my phone amid the pile of clothes lying in the middle of the floor. I had been too tired yesterday to do anything but change and collapse into my bed. My roommate, a short and bulky guy named Jared, poked his head in from our living room blearily. He had an unforgiving job at some accounting firm, and it left us little time to socialize. He muttered something, but I completely missed it. Fully awake, I began to panic as I sifted through my clothes, trying to find the source of that incessantly demanding ring.

Finally, Jared stumbled in and shoved the phone in my face. 'Here,' he announce huskily, throat dry from sleep. "You left it in the hallway."

"Thank you," I gasped and answered the call. "Hello?" I all but screamed.

"You are so lucky it wasn't Miranda." a voice hissed on the other end.

"Emily," I laughed in relief, collapsing against my bed. Jared raised an eyebrow and turned to leave, muttering about getting back to bed. "Thank you!" I whispered fervently to him, and he shrugged.

Emily was still gabbing on the other end. "Remember to pick up Miranda's bloody ribeye from Sebastian. She won't stand for airport food; how you're going to keep it hot when you serve it to her is another matter but I am happy it isn't my-'

But I had tuned her out already. My thoughts were whirling, trying to brush of my sleepiness and remember the past events. Right after Miranda had her meeting, having successfully axing at least half of the prototypes and setting the designers back four months, Nigel and her stalked out of her office. She gave Nigel some brief orders pertaining to her wardrobe which he dutifully took down and left, giving us a fleeting wink as he passed us.

When the doors had closed, Miranda stared at the two of us as we tried to look busy. After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke. "As I have told you," she announced, completely taking Nigel's credit for illuminating us, "I will need both of you to _aid_ me when I attend the meetings for _Runway_ and the _Transcendent _issue (I later found out that this was the name of the joint-collaboration issue)_._ Sharon will provide you with the tickets for tomorrow's flight. I expect you, Emily, to be there before I arrive. I will need you give me my itinerary. Adam, (I jumped—she rarely called me by my name, preferring a brusque 'you' or 'Emily') you will take care of the matter of my meal. I suppose that shouldn't be too hard."

_Actually, Miranda,_ I thought glumly as I assured Emily that I remembered. _Did it occur to you that we were leaving on a plane to England at 5 AM in the goddamn morning? And that I had to pull out all the stops to convince Sebastian to order his cook to be in the kitchens at 4 AM, preparing her disgustingly bloody ribeye and fatty sausage link?_

I looked at the clock. 3:14 AM. Whoopee. I would have time for a shower.

After my morning ritual consisting of a quick shower and a lot of concealing and gelling, I stumbled back into my bedroom, towel around my waist. Nearly stubbing my toe for the millionth time on the luggage I put near my door, I hopped around my bed, looking for the outfit that I had left out for myself. I found it, the Dolce and Gabbana blazer and Givenchy chambray shorts (not ideal for the New York spring weather, but they looked good, okay?), lying on the floor. Changing in a record time, I was in the hallway at 3:40, waiting for my cab to take me to Smith and Wollensky for Miranda's lunch.

"Don't touch my wardrobe," I called to Jared teasingly. I felt bad, most times, for not talking to him as much. He seemed like a nice guy, and he was able to tolerate the constant panic attacks I got whenever the phone rang.

From the hallway, I could see him poke his head from the sheets in the bedroom and shoot me a sleep-addled smile. "Don't worry," he croaked. "You're not my size anyway."

I blinked, noticing after five or six months that he was very attractive even at 4 AM, and had a fleeting thought of what would've happened if I actually knew him better. Was he straight? Did he like his job? What is his favorite cuisine? Gah, even when I'm not working, Miranda keeps me from enjoying my social _and _nonexistentlove life.

I laughed, before getting a text from my phone. The taxi was here. "Okay," I replied chirpily. "you can touch my shades, though. They should be the same size." But he was already asleep.

The taxi ride was blissfully fast as I picked up the food from Sebastian. After assuring him that Miranda would adore the napkin he folded into a rose (she wouldn't, and I tore it down in the taxi later), I jumped into the taxi and arrived at LaGuardia Airport, very much ahead of schedule.

Miranda, of course, had the first class resting lounge all to herself and all I had to do was to wave my _Runway _ID at the woman in charge before slipping into the room. I was sure there were chefs available, but of course it would kill my boss to eat something different for once. Miranda and Emily were sitting in the middle of the lounge, nestled comfortably in lush pillows, each holding a drink. It was the most awkward thing I had ever seen. Emily was frozen, unsure of what to do so close to _the_ Miranda Priestly, and Miranda was browsing an edition of _Women's Wear Daily, _lips pursed.

Neither of them noticed me sneak in, and I managed to get to the kitchenette and assemble Miranda's lunch on one of their plates before deigning it worthy of her eyes. When she saw me, she threw away the magazine impatiently. "About time, I thought you decided to cook it yourself." she snarled.

As I approached her and laid out the plate in front of her on the small table provided, I felt her eyes wander over my body again, simply surveying my outfit. Feeling a shiver run up my spine, I straightened up, adjusting my blazer hastily.

Thankfully, the fast ride to the airport meant that the meal was sufficiently warm enough for Miranda to accept, and she ate quietly for several minutes. Emily got out of her chair and hurried to me as we backed away from our boss. We didn't talk until we were around the corner and into the safety of the kitchenette. "All went well?" she asked, clutching her wine glass like it was some sort of stress ball.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Emily," Miranda sniffed, wiping her mouth on the (thankfully now-unfolded) napkin. "I expect you to give me the Book to peruse over during the flight."

Emily froze and turned slowly back to me. I knew we were in trouble. I widened my eyes at all, telling her to reply to Miranda, but she was shaking now, falling apart in front of my eyes.

"She d-didn't tell me to get the Book." she gasped quietly, and I took the glass away from her, fearing she would cut herself if she gripped too hard. "She just had me go to her house and help her pack. She said that was all she needed."

"Emily?" Miranda asked against slowly, putting her napkin down. I was extremely thankful we were hidden from her view. I could see Emily's career flash before her eyes.

"Emily," I hissed, putting the glass down and grabbing her hands. I stared into her eyes, trying to get a hold of her. "I need you to focus. Answer fucking Miranda."

Startled, Emily stared back. "What do I say?"

I tried my best not to roll my eyes. "Lie."

"Oh, sorry, Miranda." Emily called shakily. "I was just preparing some Pellegrino. Yes, I will have the Book ready for you when you need."

"Good," Miranda replied, and I heard magazine pages rustling. "I was beginning to think I was talking to myself. Walk me through the itinerary."

Emily collapsed against the counter, hiding her face from me. When she finally removed her hands, I could see that some of her makeup smeared from the tears threatening to emerge. "Y-yes, Miranda." she managed, and began to walk back. I grabbed her arm before she could leave.

"Emily," I muttered, and she tried to break free.

"What?" she replied frantically. "I'm going to die anyway. What are you-"

"No," I murmured, leaning close to her, forcing her to meet my eyes. "I need you to calm down and think of a good reason why I am gone. I am going to go back and get the Book."

"What?" she replied, breaking free and pushing me back slightly. Her eyes were wide and she looked completely at a loss for words. "Why?" she managed.

"Because," I replied somewhat honestly. "I would be screwed without you and without the Book."

"Emily!" Miranda snarled, and we both jumped. "Honestly, what are you two doing in there? I assure you, I do not need another meal prepared. Now get over here_, _before I get irritated. Your performance in the morning leaves a lot to be desired, Emily."

Emily scurried around the corner, but not before giving me one last glance. "Thank you," she mouthed.

I let her go, my heart sinking. The flight would be starting in less than an hour. Did I have enough time to get a taxi, get someone at Elias-Clark to unlock the building, get to _Runway_ offices, and find the Book somewhere in her office? And then get back? I gulped.

* * *

**A/N: My apologies for the longer wait; I had this entry half-finished when urgent matters arose. Sigh…but anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks for reading, and drop me a review on any comments/ideas you may have. Until next time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for the wait. University is fast approaching and I am moving to live on residence there, so I will probably have to scale back the frequency of the chapters every so often. I will have a chapter up at least once every week though at the very least.**

The way I was running, I probably looked like my wife was currently in some godforsaken hospital in the middle of Guatemala giving birth to quintuplets. The second I unsteadily composed myself and left the lounge, I broke into a full on sprint, dodging luggage and line-ups like my life depended on it. In a way, it did. Miranda would see this as a fault on both of us, and forgetting to bring the Book (which she really should've gotten herself, since she had been in possession of it for the past week—how infuriating) was among one of the worst things you could do, just above calling her "Ms Priestly".

Pulling out my phone, I speed-dialed the Elias-Clark cars, praying that the chauffeur would pick up. There was a few seconds of dialing, in which I contemplated the ways I could kill both Miranda and the chauffeur—but at last, the dialing tone stopped and Andre, one of the older chauffeurs, answered.

"'ello, dearie." he crooned.

"I'm not Emily," I snapped, side-stepping a group of hassled-looking Asian tourists. "Turn around back and get back to the airport—scratch that." I interrupted myself, finally making it out of the airport and into the drop-off area. My eyes landed on that marvelous fleet of yellow. "Meet me at the Elias-Clark building. I'll be there."

"But who's dropping you off?" Andre asked, noticeably surprised. It occurred to me later that most of the people employed by _Runway_ took advantage of their services.

"I have a taxi." I answered, ignoring his spluttering. Hanging up, I hailed a taxi with my other hand. One rolled up and I practically tossed myself into the backseat. Giving my instructions as rapidly and coherently as possible to the cab driver, I began making a game plan. The Elias-Clark Building would be open. Hopefully, I would be able to get through Eduardo's antics without too much hassle, and make it to the _Runway _offices in a jiffy. But then there was the problem with the receptionist. It was much too early for her to be there yet. I bit my lip as we drove into traffic. I would have to reach under her desk and hit the button that unlocked the door, before sprinting like a maniac to the offices. I covered my face, wiping some sweat from my forehead. My deodorant was in my luggage, and I really hoped Emily would have the foresight to check in the baggage for me, because Miranda certainly wouldn't.

It felt as if the world was against me and the smelly taxi cab I was in. Twice already, we had to jolt to a stop as the light magically turned red as we approached. I gnawed on a fingernail, ruining fifty dollars of quality nail filing. But at last, I recognized the street we were on and I threw a hundred dollar bill at the cab driver, unable to find anything smaller in my wallet since I was planning to get the exchange for the proper bills once I got to England. "Take it!" I all but screamed, finding solace in the fact that Elias-Clark would faithfully reimburse me, and tumbled out of the still-moving cab and onto the sidewalk.

As I sprinted into the building, Eduardo and I made eye contact right away. He raised an eyebrow and buzzed me in right away.

"Bless you!" I yelled, ignoring the scandalized looks of some early-bird Clackers and businessmen. I dared to look at my phone. Despite the world being against me, it turned out that I arrived in only twenty-five minutes. Smashing the close button on the elevator, I caught a reflection of myself—I looked crazed—fashionable, but crazed.

When the elevators doors finally opened to the _Runway_ offices, I sprinted to the receptionist desk and bent under it, sending papers scattering to the floor. Hitting the button, I got up and ran to the door, hearing it unlock and make a ticking sound, signaling it was about to lock. As I got my hand around the handle, it made a shrill buzz and I heard the door lock again. Shit! Fuck!

The second try proved more fruitful and I managed to heave the door open. Running down the aisle framed by my desk and Emily's, I ran straight into Miranda's office, looking frantically at her desk. Damnit! She was there in the morning as well, I could tell. The remains of her English breakfast was there, waiting in disarray for someone (me) to clean up. I ignored it and shoved it unceremoniously to the side, looking for the telltale black spine of the Book. And there it was, sitting next to an issue of _Allure_. Snatching it up I turned, breathing heavily, and ran back to the elevators. The pit stains were going to be unreal.

The same bunch were in the lobby when I ran out, and I heard them gossip to each other as I passed by, clutching the Book like some newborn baby. This was going to be news in the office. Getting through the turnstiles peacefully (thank _you_, Eduardo), I stumbled onto the sidewalk again, scanning for the Elias-Clark limousine that Andre better have driven. After perhaps five seconds of frantic scanning, I heard a honk and the limousine drive by, window whirring down. "Get in loser, we gonna shop!" Andre called happily, misquoting _Mean Girls_.

"The airport," I gasped, crawling into the spacious backseat. He revved up right away, perhaps understanding the dire scenario I was carrying out. I glanced at my phone again. Twenty-five minutes. _Traffic be good to me_, I prayed.

Andre must've been Noah or something, because he found paths in between the flood of traffic like a seasoned pro. Swerving into the drop-off zone, he slowed to a stop and turned, flashing me a wink. "Not bad, right?" he winked, but I was already out the door.

Five minutes left. Miranda would be already out of the lounge and waiting to board. Battling my way through the crowd of tourists, I just got through the screening (the security guard had laughed when she saw that all I brought along was the Book) when I felt my phone vibrate. Looking at it, I realized it was a text from Emily.

"_We are boarding soon!"_

My heartbeat rose and I searched in my pockets for my ticket. Terminal 19. _Terminal 19._

"Move!" I hissed, shoving aside a collection of young backpacking Europeans. One shouted something at me in French, and I recognized the swear word attached. _Trust me_, I thought darkly. _I'll be in much worse shit than that._

I ran past Terminal 15, the Book feeling like it was multiplying in weight. As 16 and 17 whizzed by, I was forced to slow down, unable to run any further. Settling for a brisk jog, I passed 18. My eyes widened. I could see that perfectly coiffed silver hair from here. Miranda and Emily were at the front of the line, holding their tickets. One was waiting impatiently for the boarding, and the other was looking frantically down the hallway. My eyes met Emily's, and I saw the relief in her eyes. Forcing myself to transition into a brisk walk, I got into the back of the line, holding the Book to my chest in relief, letting Emily see it. She clutched at her heart and in a very un-Emily-like manner, she blew a kiss at me. I blinked, unsure what to make of it.

When I finally boarded the plane, I made my way to my first-class (oh my god!) seat. Miranda had already pulled out a magazine from the arsenal Emily provided her with, and didn't notice me sit down at my seat. Emily, across from me, reached over instantly and plucked the Book from my hand. "Thank you," she managed, looking down at her lap. "You didn't have to," she sniffled, and I saw her rub the back of her hand hastily across her eyes.

"Do you—" I began.

"Have any idea what could've happened to us if we didn't conjure up the Book?" Emily cut in, sounding slightly crossed. She must've been asking herself that question the entire time I was gone. "Of course I have, Adam."

"No," I hissed, crossing my arms. "I was asking if you had any deodorant."

Emily looked scandalized, and I hid a smile. A feeling of victory was starting to move through me. I had done it! Against all odds! I saved Emily's ass, and mine as well.

Emily suddenly looked frightened, and my heart skipped a beat, my eyes shooting at her lap. The Book was still there.

"Oh no," she muttered, covering her mouth with one manicured hand, as the captain came onto the speakers and began his introduction, announcing that we were cleared for take-off. "I forgot your luggage back in the lounge. Guess you're going to have to do a lot of shopping in England."

I considered slapping her.


	6. Chapter 6

The flight to London was a long one, and I was relieved. Miranda could only order Emily and I to do so much when we were suspended thousands of feet in the air. Of course, that didn't stop her from unleashing her reign of terror upon the unsuspecting flight attendants, demanding better cushions and more leg-room. The Book remained on Emily's lap, untouched by Miranda for now, although I was certain she would be perusing through it eventually, cutting thousands of dollars worth of photoshoots from the final edition. It was then, glancing casually at the Book nestled protectively by a gently snoring Emily, that I noticed a slip of paper sticking out of one of the corners.

My eyes darted to the still form of Miranda. Could it be possible that she fell asleep? Granted, several feet of walkway separated Emily and I from her, but after thirty seconds of waiting for some movement, I turned back to Emily and reached over, plucking the Book carefully from her lap. The Book fell open to the page the note was sticking from (a Prada layout of handbags), and I unfolded the small paper, reaching up towards my seat's light control to brighten my surroundings.

"I shall have the Book."

Stifling a small and very un-manly shriek, I dropped the note and slammed the Book shut, turning to Miranda. Her face impassive, she motioned with one hand towards the Book, rings glittering softly in the dim lights of the airplane.

"Of course, Miranda." I managed, struggling out of my seat and going over to her side. Her eyes burrowed into mine as I stepped towards her and I nearly lost my nerve halfway. Resisting the urge to toss the Book at her unceremoniously, I passed it gently over to her.

She cleared her throat, opening to the first page. "My supplies will be nice." she simpered, referring to the arsenal of Post-It notes and red pens that she used whenever looking through the Book.

"Of course, Miranda." I repeated, turning and hurrying to Emily, where I fished in her oversized Birkin bag for the stupid supplies. As I retrieved them and handed them over obediently, my mind was racing. I barely managed to sneak a look at the note. It was very short, and scrawled in a barely legible handwriting that was obviously not Miranda's. Sitting down in my seat, I turned away from my boss, listening to the sound of her flipping through the pages. It could've been a note left there by a designer or one from _Runway's_ fashion editors. But the latter couldn't be true. The editors weren't permitted to leave anything in the Book before handing it to Miranda. I frowned, trying to find a comfortable position.

What kind of designer was A Sachs?

* * *

London sucked. The second we left the airport, Emily and I were whisked off into a separate limo. The surprisingly nice spring weather in New York did not translate over to London, and I instantly regretted my choice of Chambray shorts when I saw the rain puddles. Miranda's luggage was in our vehicle's trunk, and we were expected to bring it over to her suite and arrange everything for her while she attended a welcome dinner thrown by the _Runway UK_ staff. My stomach felt like it would rip itself apart from hunger and I opened my mouth to ask the driver to take us the nearest organic/fat-free/lactose-free eatery. Emily anticipated the question and covered my mouth roughly, shoving me back into my seat.

"I'll bite your manicure off." I threatened, wrenching her fingers from my mouth. "I'm hungry enough."

"We can worry about food after we get Miranda's luggage to the hotel safely." Emily replied, determinedly.

"I'm so glad you have the same degree of concern for my luggage as well." I shot back bitterly. I tried to catch a glimpse of London through the fogged window. My wallet already hurt.

Emily chuckled. "I already apologized. They'll send it back to you when we return. It's not like I lost it or anything."

As the limo pulled into the hotel driveway, the two of us got out, instantly aided by two bellhops. The ride up to Miranda's suite went smoothly enough and I finally got a good look at the room Miranda would be calling home for the next month after tipping the bellhops ("It's on Runway." I said, throwing some American money into their hands.)

The place was lavish, a modern suite complimented with an enormous bathroom and floor-to-ceiling windows. Emily was already on the floor of the bedroom, turning the combination to Miranda's luggage, letting thousands of dollars worth of clothes spill out.

"We have to sort with the itinerary in mind." She announced, holding up a gorgeous Valentino gown breathlessly. "Put her whites and blacks on the left side of the closet, but make sure to exclude all her formal wear. Those will need to be sent to the cleaners. We'll probably need to rearrange them anyway when she comes back, but at least we tried."

For the next hour we managed to work methodically through three of Miranda's baggage, with a small break for us to devour the salads that Emily ordered from the hotel's catering service. My mind wandered back to the note in the Book and I looked around the room curiously, trying to find either to no avail.

"What?" Emily asked, looking up during her task of neatly folding yet another pair of her infamous Hermes scarves. Suddenly, her head whipped around as we both heard an angry vibrating coming from Emily's bag. "Omigod," Emily gasped, crawling over. "The damn air attendant made me turn the fucking ringer off."

She picked up. "Miranda Priestly," she managed before being cut short. Even without speaker on, I could hear Miranda yelling from the other side of the line.

"Emily? Is that you? I've been calling and calling Adam for the longest time but he has decided to not answer my calls!"

I looked helplessly at Emily. My phone was in our room, still turned off for the flight.

"I am so sorry, Miranda." Emily replied hurriedly. "What can we do—" but Miranda was already speaking again.

"I need that black handbag that was delivered to me sometime last month. I have someone from _Vogue_ that would look to see it. Send it over. That's all." she spoke very calmly, recovering quickly from her initial outburst. Before Emily could answer, she hung up.

Nearly spilling her salad, Emily got to her feet and ran to the closet, opening up the bottom compartment that we just spent the last hour organizing and reached in, pulling out bag after bag.

"Help me find the bag." She ordered, throwing a Burberry bag over her shoulder as if it was nothing but a rag. Getting up, she ran to the hotel phoneline and sped-dialled the concierge. "Hello? Yes, I would like a vehicle ready in the next minute. Thank you."

I got onto my knees next to her and began looking for whatever stupid black bag Miranda wanted. Half of me smiled at the ridiculousness of what Emily was saying. Since the call was coming from Miranda Priestly's suite, the staff would be sending a car from their finest fleet, expecting her or even a _living being_ to come downstairs. Little did they know that we would be sending an accessory.

Of course, we would have to find the bag first. Miranda obviously didn't make it easy for us. No brand, no texture, no size, no nothing. What did she say? Sometime last month? That narrowed it down, thankfully, to about fifteen bags. Emily pulled her Macbook from the nightstand and turned off the music that we were playing earlier. Fingers flying across the keyboard, she pulled up the list of Miranda's belongings.

"Alright," she ordered. "It's most likely a McQueen bag. That's the only big order that we got for handbags last month, and it can't be Westwood because they have only been focusing on muted color schemes—and certainly not black—for this season's handbags."

I pulled out insanely dark blue McQueen bag from the back of the closet. "Is this close enough?" I asked skeptically, throwing it to her. Miranda cared very little about her details, ironically. Black could very well be brown or lavender.

"Maybe," Emily hissed, picking it up and throwing it next to her. "but we can't send the wrong one to her. Okay, okay. Shit!" Her phone vibrated again and she dove for it, knocking her laptop to the ground. "Hello, yes, Miranda. Yes, we are sending it to you—yes, right away. Yes, yes. Alright—yes, very soon. Good bye."

She closed her eyes as Miranda hung up and flopped back onto the bed. "She said 'clutch' this time." she all but wailed. Sliding to the ground, she pulled the laptop back to her.

I got up, kicking aside the assortment of very non-black bags and hurried to an unopened luggage, letting at least twenty clutches fall out. "Where? Where?!" I screamed, shoving aside the colorful clutches.

The hotel phone rang and we both jumped, afraid Miranda somehow managed to call through that line. Emily picked up, screaming "Hello?" into the receiver. She listened quickly before thanking the staff on the other end. "Yes, good. We will be sending it down in a minute. Yes, you heard me correctly. We are sending a clutch down in a minute. No, no one will be with the clutch. Just send it to the address I gave you earlier. Good bye!" she slammed down the receiver.

By the time she did that, I had picked out five noir clutches. "Which one?" I asked hopelessly.

Emily glanced at my selection before looking at her laptop. "Not the Prada or the McQueen. That gets rid of at least three. It's between the Michael Kors and D&G." She chewed her bottom lip. "Michael Kors." She announced, closing her Mac triumphantly. I tossed it over to her and she ran to the door, where the bellhop had been waiting for the past six minutes it took us to locate Miranda's bag.

I collapsed, too tired and hungry to ask Emily how she decided which to pick. To be honest, I wasn't sure I trusted the girl anymore. She was falling apart more in the last 24 hours than the entire month before. Closing my eyes, I leaned back as I heard Emily closed the hotel door finally, not before yelling at the bellhop to 'book it' down the floors.

Eyes still closed, I heard Emily fumble her way into the washroom, turning on the tap. "We did it," I managed shakily.

I heard her give a strangled laugh, and was tempted to ask if she was alright. Sighing, I opened my eyes and made my way back to the closet, and began cleaning up the mess we made. We've been in London for roughly four hours now, and already I wasn't sure I could make it through another four.

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Please drop a review and let me know what you think of the chapter! The next chapter should come within the next seven days, but I will be moving into early-bird housing for university very soon, and I'm not sure how much time I will have to write. Thanks again!**


End file.
